


Aubade

by redandgold



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M, soulbond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 09:31:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10784118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: "No. No, no, no — you really don’t want me as a soulmate."





	Aubade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [2davidbeckham3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/2davidbeckham3/gifts).



> Prompt off tumblr from a loooong time ago; sort of soulmate feelings, idk how to describe anW thanks for requesting this <3

The first time David meets Iker, it’s toasty in Madrid, and the sweat drips down his nose in the summer of 2003. He’s been there a couple days but he only meets him now, this serious young man already becoming a legend. A saint for his sinner. Suddenly the last of his connection to Manchester shatters. It happens so cleanly David almost doesn’t notice - slivers of glass that fall to the ground and are crushed to powder under his feet - just like that. Iker’s smile is all it takes, warmer than the Madrid sun. David breathes in slow.

Later that night he sits in his new room and looks at the walls, whitewashed and clean, feels the bed go soft under him. He feels for something else - a Northern dourness in the back of his mind, of rain and warm pasties that settle in his stomach - and finds nothing there.

There's a rug with tassels on the floor. He threads each of them out until they're uniform and even, lying pale and straight on the parquet, until his fingers stop shaking.

 

*

 

The first time David meets Gary, it’s a cold day at the Cliff, some foreboding January morning in 1988. The boss brings him around to shake hands with everyone and David commits their names to memory. Polite as you could be. Robbie, Nicky, Raphael, Paul, Gary. Except it’s only at the last one that David looks up, really looks, and the boy looking back is as wide-eyed as he is. A warmth runs through their hands, but it’s different from how David imagined it’d be - it’s not sunrise and beaches and the tingling of your skin, but softer, darker, the way you might feel on a rainy day when you’re wrapped up in blankets and drinking hot chocolate.

And that’s it. David runs next to Gary at training, listening to him complaining about the first team and the shite food and the rotten weather, falling in love with the way he combs his hair out of his eyes and actually cackles when Scholesy says something funny. Soulmates are forever, so he's told, which means that Gary's forever, which means that United's forever. He's seventeen and he's just won the youth cup; Gary nudges him forward and he hikes the trophy into the air with one hand, the other wrapped around Gary's shoulder, feeling the riot of pride that bursts through their shared barrier like flowers. If this is forever, then forever is good.  

And that’s it. They all lived happily ever after. The end.

 

*

 

Not the end.

 

*

 

Iker looks at him lazily. It's been two weeks since _that_ had happened and David's still struggling with echoes, with the sharp fragments of red that pierce the white canvas every so often. Like someone spray-painting blood over the pure marble of Cibeles.

"What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing," David lies, sucks in air through the gap between his front teeth.

 

*

 

He isn't, really.

 

*

Iker knows. Iker knows that David knows. It's a strange little game they play, a sort of dancing-around on tiptoes, the point where they feel everything about each other yet couldn't tell you anything at all. David couldn't say what Iker's favourite food is; where he likes to go after training; whether he has cats or dogs. But every time Madrid score a goal a great explosion heaves through the wall and overflows, all white and blue and gold, a blinding, bright stab of _feeling_ that leaves David on the floor gasping at its rawness. And maybe that's all there is about Iker.

It reminds David of another colour. Another city. Another boy.

 

*

 

"Can it break?"

They're in Iker's hotel room the night before the game against Malaga. David is kneeling down in front of the minibar and lining up all of the chocolates from small to big; Iker watches him, his dark brown eyes hooded with an expression David can't quite figure.

"Chocolate? Yeah, you just snap 'em. They've even got little lines you can follow."

Iker laughs. "That's not what I meant, David."

 _Da-vid_. He considers the way Iker says his name, the Spanish _ah_ and the dragging out of the vowel in the second syllable. It is flat and unfamiliar and he hangs on to it more than he should. Iker pulses gently at the wall, curious, maybe even sympathetic.

"Do you want to - "

David stands up and crosses over to where Iker's sprawled on the bed. He leans down and kisses him, once, feeling the _tell me about it_ die on Iker's lips as he kisses back. Iker is warm and soft and melts into him the way Gary never quite allowed himself to, which was, David thinks, one of the things he used to love about him the most.

 

*

 

Once upon a time, there was a boy from the North and a boy from the South, and they were in love.

 

*

 

Gary hasn't said anything for minutes. He's been trying to bury it in his head but David can feel it all; it's not been fifteen years for nothing. He winces at the anger and begs forgiveness from the loss. There's a pang of desperation and pure yearning that's so searing that David does his best to ignore it. _This is my fault_ , he tries to put across instead, although he doesn't know if he'll get through. _Not yours or the gaffer's or United's. I just have to go._

"When's your flight?" Gary asks finally, looking up, his hands clasped together like in prayer.

"Next Tuesday."

"All right. Okay."

David takes a shot at laughing.

"I won't make you come to the airport."

Gary takes a shot at grinning.

"Good. Don't want to take all the attention away from you, and that."

They both don't quite get there. They're standing on the outcrop just below the edge of the cliff, fingers scrabbling for the top. _I don't want to leave. I don't want you to go._ They try to pull themselves back up, but it is always just out of reach.

 

*

 

It takes David years to watch United again. Every time he switches on the telly and the red shirts are walking onto the pitch, he swallows and changes the channel. If Iker notices this, he makes no mention of it.

The first time he sits through a whole match it's them (not them, he thinks, Manchester United Football Club, as if he'd never really been a part) against Liverpool at home. Madrid played the day before and they have the day off. Iker hands him the remote and says, "go on."

_United, United -_

David stops thinking when he first sees Gary leading them out, the band wrapped tight around his arm, his eyes as serious and unblinking as they had always been.

 _I wanna be Captain one day, Becks,_ he'd said when they were kids. Everything David had been saying - something inconsequential about new cars or boots - had crumbled in the face of Gary's fire that raged like a storm. David had felt his own heart whipped into a drumbeat, carried along by an insatiable _love_ he could only wish was his to keep.

It isn't a great game. Liverpool are dominant for long periods and David finds himself digging his fingers into his palms, caring about something he hasn't in a long time. Iker watches with him, his mind settling alongside David's, the occasional spark of excitement or wince of frustration pulsing its way through. He doesn't say a word.

 _United_ -

Rio leaps into the air and the ball's in the net and there's Gary, running down the pitch all the way to where the Scousers are sat, pulling at the badge on his chest. Kissing it, the way he used to kiss David. Trembling and defiant and red. David almost cries out from the shock that rips through him, a sudden flash of colour that vanishes like smoke as he reaches out to touch it.

I wish, he thinks, I wish, I wish -

Iker extends something else into his mind. This is soft, golden sun, waves on the beach, the spicy heat of paella. "Te amo," he says quietly. David lets Iker hug him, feels his arms wrap around his shoulders. Dah-vid. Take in his heaving breaths, the dry sobs that wrack his frame, threatening to be wrenched from him like theft.

 

*

 

Once upon a time, there was a boy from the North and a boy from the South, and they might have even been in love.

 

*

 

"Do you like it here?" Iker asks. "In Spain?"

David smiles. "Yes. It doesn't rain as much."

Iker laughs and presses his face towards David's, allowing the affection to run over through the wall and cover him the way a waterfall might. David runs a hand through his hair and thinks how young he is, untarnished and unspoilt. Thinks, I hope you will never have to leave. Doesn't think, I hope I will never have to leave you.

 

*

 

David doesn't even know why he remembers, but.

It's after the Boro game in '98. They've lost three-two and Arsenal are probably going to win the league again and David is tired, so tired, that he thinks his legs are going to give out right there and then forever. The crowd spent the better part of the game chanting about France. He feels his hurt leaking out of him and tries to stopper it before it hits Gary, not wanting to drown him in any of this.

Gary comes over anyway, puts his arm around him. "You stupid bastard," he says, not unkindly. "Why'd you let that bother you, anyhow?"

"I dunno." He's twenty three and they expect him to deliver the stars. "Maybe I'm not cut out for this."

"You're the best man I know for this." Gary draws him close and tangles his fingers in his blonde hair. David holds on to the hem of Gary's shirt, breathing shallow. He doubts Gary will ever say _I love you_ to anyone but it's there in his brain beyond the need for words. Just that slow heartbeat and that colour that sounds like al-ways. Al-ways.

He wants. He doesn't want. He wants.

 

*

 

"When I was a kid," David says, "I thought I'd stay at United forever."

"Was it because of the bond?" Iker asks. Maybe there's an ulterior motive in that, David doesn't know. He probes and finds only a flat interest, so if it's anything Iker is hiding it well.

"Maybe. But it was - United, y'know. I had all their kits since I was six. I met Sir Bobby when I was thirteen and it was the greatest day of my life."

"Uh huh." Iker runs a finger over David's tattoos, tracing the _99_ on his hand with a casualness that could have been forced. "I know the feeling. When I first stepped onto the pitch in the Bernabeu it was - "

He doesn't need to finish. Just smiles at David sadly. "You have a type," he says, laughs.

 

*

 

"How is it," Gary says. "In Spain."

David winces at the clipped vowels. Iker sends a note of concern but he pushes it away; this is for him alone to handle.

"Good food," he says. "You'd like it."

Gary gives him a short chuckle. David doesn't need telepathy, just fifteen years, to feel the wistfulness in it. "How's your new - how's Casillas?"

"Oh." The word slides out of David before he can help himself. Now he just feels stupid. Gary grins up helplessly at him, his short, messy hair falling into his eyes, tugging at his socks with the England crest on them the only thing they share now.

"I'm not stupid, Becks," he says gently. No one's called David _Becks_ for a long time. He swallows and puts his hands in his pockets.

"I like him a lot," he confesses. _Dah-vid_. Gary nods, once, like he's deciding something. Like he's letting go of the edge of the cliff. An uneasy finality settles and hangs in between.

They're quiet for a while. "Have you - " David gestures in the air. Gary shakes his head.

"No." He looks like he would melt into David, if only David asked; but he doesn't ask, and Gary doesn't offer, and it passes.

"I'm sorry." David looks at the lockers behind them. "I wish - "

"Nah." Gary peers owlishly at him, a mixture of so many emotions that David can't guess at them when once he would have just known, and the thought makes him feel like throwing up. "You don't want me as a soulmate. I wake up at six, you wake up at twelve. That'd be bullshit, that."

He laughs, pats him on the back, stands up, goes over to talk to Scholesy instead. David watches him walk away, the shirt and the _G. Neville - 2_ hanging off his shoulders exactly how it used to. Scholesy looks over and catches his eye once but Gary never turns around.

David thinks, I love you. Te amo. He remembers the way Iker smiles at him, like he, too, was Cibeles.

 

*

 

He doesn't quite do staying behinds, which is maybe why he loves the ones who do. Iker looks at him with understanding. "Now who will speak to me in English," he says.

"It's a shit language anyway," David rolls his eyes. Tries to pretend. Surely after so long he's gotten better at it.

Iker smooths over the wall with a wave of - regret, indulgence, something - and David presses his fingers against his, skin cold and damp. "We can keep it still, you know," he begins to say, but Iker shakes his head.

"I am beginning to think it is not supposed to belong to me."

David opens his mouth to protest. Iker gives him a playful shove in the shoulder. Five thousand miles away, Los Angeles beckons.

"Go back to him," he says. His eyes are very bright.

 

*

 

Once upon a time, there was a boy from the North and a boy from the South, and -

 

*

 

He extends the England stopover for a few days and takes a train up to Manchester. It's raining when he gets off; that much hasn't changed, which makes him smile. Old Trafford is beautiful even under the dark sky, in the way he has to crane his neck to see the white pylons like aeroplanes above.

For a second he allows himself this indulgence: he is in a red shirt, on the right wing, feeling the way Gary bursts through his head all fiercely proud.

Gary's house hasn't changed at all. David keys in the code and waits for the gates to roll back, one arm hanging out of the window, the other drumming the wheel impatiently. Maybe he won't be home, he reasons. It's pre-season and they might be busy training or he might be on holiday or Scholesy might be over. Maybe it'd even be better that way.

He wants. He doesn't want. He wants.

No one comes to the door after the first ring and David turns to step away, but then he hears wood scraping and looks back to see Gary staring wide-eyed at him. "Becks," he says numbly. He's dressed in a United shirt two sizes too big and he's wearing different-coloured socks and he hasn't combed his hair for years.

"Gary," David says. There are many other things on the tip of his tongue yet somehow he manages to swallow them all, and his hands lie useless by his side.

He cloaks himself in red-not-white and lays bare on the granite. There is no more wall, now, and it spills everywhere; into the crevices and the jagged edges that once they cut themselves on. I love you, he thinks. Do you -

"Becks," Gary says again, in a whisper, the word pulsing red like a flame. Yes. Yes. I wish. I want. David reaches a hand out to be saved.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

>  ~~\- most of it is bullshit~~  
>  \- all dates and facts accurate as always - except maybe becks's 99 tattoo. I'm not sure when he got it? It's definitely there, tho, it's my favourite of his tatts.  
> \- I've never in my life written Iker so I apologise  
> Thanks for reading <3


End file.
